Sirius Black was dead. Utterly, incontrovertibly, joyously dead, and Severus toasted the fact nightly to his fireplace, the silence and chill and gloom of his quarters no impediment to his cheer. That he alone celebrated the man's death mattered not to him; solitude suited him, and while he could bear, and even savour, the bleak faces of Black's few friends -- who were no friends of Severus' -- the massive indifference of the rest of the population inflamed him.

"Look!" he wanted to shout to them. "Black is dead; we're free of his vile existence." But no one knew of Black's demise except the members of the Order of the Phoenix. And Potter.

Potter was always in the thick of trouble, and knew things he shouldn't, and was permitted to go about sulking and being disrespectful to his professors because of his 'loss'.

"Daft codgers. The brat barely knew him... wish I'd had the same pleasure." Severus poured another glass of merlot and raised it to the fire. "Goodbye, Black, and good riddance."

The bottle, which he had just set on the sideboard, crashed to the stone floor, and Severus blinked at the mess of shards and wine, blood-dark and opaque in the poor light. Tendrils raced for his carpet.

Too many toasts into inebriation to think of hovering charms, Severus cast about for something to save his precious -- and illegal -- Sumayya Twenty-Thirty. He dithered a few seconds, then yanked his robe over his head and flung it on the merlot. The dungeon chill pimpled his skin, and naked, he leaned against the sideboard and scrubbed at his eyes, feeling foolish for such a muggle reaction. Hovering charms aside, the fading colours did not impede the carpet in the slightest.

"Up." He jerked a hand as though pulling a marionette's string, and the carpet rose a foot, taking the furniture with it. "Even in death you make me a fool, Black," he muttered, and reached for his sodden robe.

Slowly, and very deliberately, the glass of wine slid the length of the sideboard, reached the end, teetered, and fell.

Potter slunk into the classroom, managing to look both morose and defiant, and Severus fought off the devils on his shoulders, one telling him to take points for breathing, the other suggesting Cruciatus. The brat caught his eye and glared, and Severus allowed a small smirk to steal over his lips, just enough to infuriate the boy.

A muscle in Potter's jaw jumped.

Severus woke that night to a dull persistent pain in his side. He stumbled to the loo in the near-darkness, the dying watch-candle turning his skin even sallower as the mirror flashed him the sight of himself, cat-eyed and tousle-haired. His Y-fronts slipped off his thighs to puddle around his ankles as he pissed, and he hoped the elastic would last until his next payday, an issue that seemed quite important at four in the morning.

His half-asleep mind gnawed on the state of his underpants as though chewing over a moral dilemma. Free-floating anxiety, Poppy called it. Causeless worry, and no it wasn't uncommon or reason to call St Mungo's, and yes it might aggravate his ulcer but everything aggravated his ulcer and he really ought to consider that sabbatical or at least do the anger-management meditation.

He shook himself off, and stepped out of his pants rather than risk his balance bending over to retrieve them. Passing the mirror -- long spelled silent -- dark spots caught his eye and he paused to swipe at the mirror with his wrist; his initial ire at the house-elves faded as the spots resolved into bruises peppering his ribcage.

Free-floating anxiety. Causeless worry. His fingertips ghosted over the uneven purple circles, and found them shallow. Broken capillaries, nothing more. His hands reached for the potion cabinet of their own accord, and found salve for light bruises and muscle strains amidst the crowd of jars, bottles, vials, tins, packets, and boxes.

When he woke in the morning, the bruises had vanished.

The headmaster being the sly persistent bugger he was, Severus' Tuesday and Thursday evenings were lost to occlumency lessons, and he used them well. Detentions and taken points would draw notice, but harsh words stayed between them, and Severus loosed his tongue. As did Potter.

The graded papers from Monday's classes, once a neat pile on his desk, now carpeted the floor below it, and ink from an overturned inkwell dripped onto the mess. If he looked hard enough and squinted just so, Severus could almost imagine letters forming in the black rivulets spidering across papers and floor. S, N, I, V--

A hovering charm levitated the mess to the rubbish bin, and a cleaning spell lifted the surface ink; the elves could scour the stone if they wanted it cleaner, and the fourth years could redo their essays on digitalis in healing potions.

For a change, just a little break in routine, he graded from the sofa, refilled inkwell perched on the side table and sixth-year quizzes resting on An Illustrated Dictionary of Magical Herbs, with a sheet of vellum between them to save the cover. When he came to Potter's, the fire sparked and hissed ominously.

Severus scrawled an 'F' in the corner without reading it. Every light in the room went out.

His own breath sounded too loud in the darkness, and he carefully set the tests and his makeshift desk on the sofa cushion beside him. He was tired; an early night seemed like a good idea. He would wake early and finish his grading in the morning. In the staff room. With a nice cuppa, and Hagrid blathering to Xiomara on the merits of hippogriffs over broomsticks in the background.

The sheets were ice, and clung to him, rasping against his flannel nightshirt. Severus rolled himself into a blanket cocoon, and waited for warmth or sleep, whichever came first... and woke with no recollection of sleeping, and no idea of what had him so thoroughly, instantly awake in the black of night.

A long pause, and his breathing was loud again, and he felt as though something was touching his arm through the layers of fabric. He freed it, and groped for his wand.

"Lumos."

Empty bedroom. Shadows in the corners. The pressure on his arm firmed, and Severus pulled back the sleeve and watched small red marks blossom on his skin, ripen into dusky purple bruises. He'd wanted to rise early anyway. He had tests to grade -- Longbottom's test to grade -- if he finished early he could enjoy his breakfast in peace.

The staff room was cold and the stack of tests small, and he had read Household Charms Weekly cover to cover before Filius stumbled in, yawning.

Granger managed to penetrate every corner of the library without ever raising her shrill voice above a murmur. By Weasley's much louder responses, she was berating him on his study habits yet again, proving once and for all the silly chit truly belonged in Gryffindor -- if only for sheer blind tenacity in the face of certain failure. Potter said nothing, and a peek through the stacks showed him slouched at the table, quill running over his lips, eyes unseeing.

Severus used their distraction to slip out, his selection tucked under one arm with the cover facing his side, the spine pointing down.

One of the sofa cushions had exploded, and there was goose down all over the sitting room. Severus summoned them all into a bag and set it aside for the elves. He claimed the uncomfortable armchair instead, and laid the book flat on its spine, perversely determined to keep the cover hidden. His efforts were wasted; an ominous chill developed.

That first night he tried candles in the four corners, and the second, salt across the doorways. The third he attempted an eviction charm, and only managed to dislocate himself to the hallway in his nightclothes. The fourth he decided to bear it, and the fifth he wrote a letter to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Spirit Division. The eighteenth, an exorcist arrived.

"It's about time."

"They'd've sent someone quicker if you'd filed a complaint through the school. Public structures get top priority."

"Just fix it and leave."

"Hmph. Suit yourself."

A tense hour followed, in which the exorcist did little but scratch the side his nose with his wand and prod Severus' books with the same. Severus remained still during the inspection, looming in the doorway with arms folded across chest and glare ratcheted up to three-quarters strength.

"Yep, nothing wrong here," said the exorcist, tucking his wand away. "Only licensed sprits been through, and them not in a dozen years, I'd say. Not with these wards up."

Arms went rigid and hands crushed elbows. "Then how do you explain the phenomena in my quarters?"

"With cases like this it's often spontaneous magic, frequently caused by adolescents, but adults under emotional stress can--" The exorcist looked up, and blanched. "Or m-maybe it's a student playing a prank."

"A prank."

"Yes?"

"In my quarters."

"Er, what beastly little blighters."

"Get out."

"The bill--"

"Will be paid. Out!"

Solitude, and silence but for the tick of the clock, which sped and sped until a thin ribbon of smoke rose. The hands spun on the face. The clock whined, gave a groan, and stopped at ten past one.

It had been his mother's, so he didn't hex it.

On Tuesday, Potter noticed.

"You look like hell. Sir."

"Silence. Legilimens!"

Calling the Spirit Division had been a mistake; acknowledgement only encouraged his... unwanted guest, unwanted psychosis, whatever. Bruises mottled his body, and scratches, and bites, and burns, and marks Severus could not identify. He returned to ignoring them but they knew him for weak and closed in, pack predators scenting blood.

For four nights he lay stiffly in his bed, refusing to respond to the light touches that made such heavy marks. The pain was trifling, even for one not so jaded to it as he, but it kept him awake. The fifth night saw peace, and Severus would have crowed in triumph had his eyes not felt full of sand or his bones wax with exhaustion.

It did not last -- couldn't last; his victories never did. A light touch, one he might not have noticed if hadn't spent the last month dreading such things, ran up his thigh, curiously gentle. It pooled at his groin, and tired as Severus was it took several minutes before he cottoned on to the new tactic.

"No!" He kicked, but there was nothing to kick, and the phantom hands continued. Warmth cupped his cock, bold and unsubtle. "Get off me, Black!"

He froze as the word left his mouth, blurted like a Hufflepuff secret, stupidity and carelessness and disaster all in one.

The presence over him paused as well, and grew without moving, became denser and heavier and more there, and oh gods above, he could see a faint outline of a figure.

Should not have said his name, names are power, names give definition, names make it real. And it was real, and strong as it pinned his arms over his head and a warm wet something engulfed his cock through his pants and he was not, not, not getting hard.

Except he was.

Energy crackled and raised the hair on his arms, and he fought it, silent now lest he hand it more power, but it fed off his own rising arousal, channeled the energy back into him until he spurted into his Y-fronts as he hadn't in twenty years.

The sticky warmth that glued fabric to his skin quickly cooled. Severus moved his arms, tentative, and found them free. He made it to the sitting room on shaky legs before he realized he had no where else to go. Should he knock on Albus' door, or Merlin forbid, Minerva's, begging a couch for the night? What should he say? A dead man had raped him?

He crawled back into his sweaty sticky sheets and tried not to stare at the shadows.

Potter passed him without a glance, but only got halfway to the end of the hall before he stopped and turned. "Are you all right, sir?"

"What?"

"You're just... standing there."

He was, and drew himself straight. "I am a professor here, Potter, and I may stand where I please. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Potter stomped away, and Severus returned to attempting to force himself down the hall to his quarters.

He lay awake in the darkness, tense, and when the first touch came a small sound of negation escaped his lips. No words followed, nor any sounds from the other, for it didn't have a mouth with which to speak, nor hands to touch, nor a hard cock to drive into him...

Severus wanted to know what the hell had happened in the Department of Mysteries to make it so immune to the rules, not that it had ever followed the rules to begin with, even those which ought never be broken, even for Bl-- for it.

He wanted to know how the bastard always knew exactly how to get to him. He pinched his lips, and tried to remain impassive as the strangely hot/cold solid/formless shape invaded him, but the touches felt real and the rest of the bed cold and he found himself taken as he had every night the last week, and the only protest he could make was to not react, and even that was sabotaged by his willful cock.

Sensation drove into him no matter how tightly he pressed his legs together. He resisted the urge to reach between them to feel whether his flesh parted around an invisible member, or if his senses fooled him.

Free-floating anxiety took on a world of new meaning, and Severus choked back a laugh; the sound only encouraged it, and the something in his body (or the part of his mind that thought so) slammed deep, rubbing fast and long and smooth across his prostate, and he bit his lip and tasted blood as he came.

He spent long hours stalking the halls, or grading in the staff room. Filius mistook his emergence for a plea for companionship, and Severus disabused him of the ridiculous idea with a campaign of grunted responses to everything the Charms master said, until the staff room was generally deserted. Later, after he overheard Xiomara telling Sybill about the new Snape-free staff room in the old school paper office, he moved back to the dungeons.

*... most illogical piece of tripe I've had the displeasure of reading--*

A sudden pressure on his groin sent the quill digging into the younger Creevey boy's essay; red ink seeped through the parchment. Something already too tense inside him snapped.

"Here!" He flung the inkwell across the room; it shattered on the wall, red ink splattering, too bright for blood. "Tell me what you want and get the hell out."

Even before he finished speaking letters were forming in the ink. H-A-R--

Comprehension at last, and Severus laughed, loudly, long. "Potter. You want me to leave Potter alone, be nice to him, perhaps. Coddle his sorry arse like the rest of those fools, all because you were your typical idiotic self and left the task of guarding him to others. Why the hell aren't you pestering him?"

Insubstantial fingers clawed at him, pinching and petting viciously.

"He can't see you, can he? He's too wrapped up in his own miserable little world to notice a pathetic pseudo-spirit." He wondered again what had happened in the Department of Mysteries to result in such a strong yet powerless almost-ghost. Invisible hands cupped his crotch. "I think not, Black. This has gone on long enough." He strode out of his rooms, and did not return until Thursday.

"Professor? Why are we holding the lesson in your sitting room?"

"Shut up."

Potter glared, a paltry imitation of the master, and tossed his book bag down next to a side table.

"Be careful. This is not the quidditch pitch. Legilimens!"

"Fuck--" The word slipped through Potter's lips like a rabid dog from his leash, and Severus would have taken points if his focus had not been narrowed to breaking past the boy's hastily erected defenses.

Sweat broke on brows; gasps filled the room. Potter hit the floor, but instantly rose again, lip curled and hair more mussed than usual. "Is that the best you can--"

"Legilimens!"

Down he went again, and Snape did not let him up, but chased Potter through the turns of his own mind, seeking a path deeper, a specific path. He found it; better still, he found a treasure trove of useful material.

hand fisting nice arse flexing under robes clean scent perfume no perfume locker room steam don't look too long soft red hair blonde hair brown hair dark eyes light eyes short tall young old stroke

"My my, you're not very particular about the subjects of your fantasies, are you, Mr Potter? Though I grant you Miss Weasley has slimmed down since she began playing quidditch."

"Get out... of my... head."

"But really, Lupin? I thought you would have a bit more taste than that, seeing as how I managed to occupy a small amount of your wanking time." Severus stole a step, two, three, until he was looking down his nose at the boy, the appendage as good as a target sight. "Does it turn you on to be down there, Potter?"

The lamp exploded.

"N-no."

"Liar. Ten points for destroying my lamp."

"Wasn't... m-me."

"Liar." The jar of fire-talk powder fell off the mantle. "You do like it. You want to be on your knees, pleasing people -- and after all I've done for your ungrateful little self, you should be pleasing me. You've thought about it. Admit it."

Potter shook his head, and his eyes bulged as Severus undid the front of his own robe and stroked his half-hard cock. He leaned forward and brushed the tip across Potter's tightly pressed lips, ignored a vicious invisible pinch to his side.

"Finite incantatum."

Potter shuddered as the pressure left his mind. "Bastard," he said, but then licked the pre-come from his lips.

"Up." Severus hauled the boy to his feet by one arm when he did not obey quickly enough, pushed him back against the desk, and then his lips found Potter's neck and glass was breaking in the background.

"Oh! Don't-- I-- but you hate--"

"Yes, and you hate me," Severus hissed in his ear. "It doesn't seem to matter at night when you're tossing off, hot and feverish and trying to be silent. Wouldn't your friends be interested to hear all the names you call out when you come..."

Potter flushed, dark hectic red spots that clashed with his green eyes. "Shut up," he said, but his squirming was halfhearted at best, and his brow creased as he chewed his lower lip. Severus swooped down on the busy mouth, steeled against the taste of chocolate or Pepper Imps, and was disgruntled to find the boy tasted pleasantly of nothing in particular. Potter's hands tangled in Severus' robe, neither pushing away nor pulling closer, only twisting the cloth as though linen could solve his dilemma. Severus boosted him onto the desk.

"Pr'fessor? Why's your clock acting like that?"

Severus thought, kissed the side of the brat's neck. "Spontaneous magic, caused by hyperactive adolescent hormones."

"Oh. Sorry. That's... hmmm."

Severus pulled up the boy's robe, pushed the narrow but toned chest until Potter leaned back on his elbows, removed his pants -- which, Severus was happy to see, were in nearly as sorry a state as his own. Potter's prick looked ready to burst at the slightest touch, so Severus gripped the stiff flesh.

Potter choked out something unintelligible, and Severus sank down and licked his erection, hoping to silence the brat; no such luck, for Potter's noises only grew louder. He tried licking the tight balls, and when that didn't work guided Potter's legs open ("Heels on the desk, stupid boy.") and licked his hole.

Potter only sobbed louder, and writhed unhelpfully. The twitching muscle relaxed under his tongue until Severus worked his way inside, one hand drifting up to stroke Potter's cock.

"Oh god, S-severus!"

Severus slapped the boy's thigh.

"I mean Snape. Professor. Sir. Oh, please don't stop."

He almost had to, after that. Irritated, he tongued his way back up to the straining purple cock and swallowed it down.

"Oh, fuck, Se-snape!"

Severus growled around his mouthful of cock, earning another shout. His hands slipped back down to Potter's hole, and he rubbed the tight pucker, slick with his own saliva. One digit slipped inside, just to the first knuckle, and Potter gurgled, his throat chopping all sounds to a strangled 'hng'.

He had never picked up the trick of deep-throating, so he hummed instead, and wiggled the invading finger, and semen burst over his tongue in short pulses, and Potter made a sound like a dying cat. Severus looked up though a screen of hair to watch Potter come, his face open-mouthed and slack, his eyes widening and focused beyond Severus' head. An unwelcome tingle at his back and then--

"Sirius!" Then Potter's sweaty hands slipped on the desk and he fell back with a thunk.

Severus stood, upended the jar holding his quills, spat into it, and reviewed his handiwork.

Potter lay mussed and flushed, robe hiked up to his waist, knees spread wide. He struggled to sit. "Sirius... I thought I saw... What the hell was that?"

Severus stepped away from the brat, cautious and hopeful. "It's called an orgasm, Potter. Surely you've had one before. Now, get out." Both of you.

Potter's jaw did a pratfall. "But you haven't-- I mean, I thought--"

"No you didn't, Potter. You're incapable of the art called thought. Collect your belongings and get out."

"But--" Potter cut himself off and obeyed, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder as if he expected Severus to produce a dead trout and a parasol and offer to do a scene from the musical of his choice.

He paused at the door. "Um, sir? Do you think we might--"

"No."

"Ah. All right then. I'll just... Well, bye." Utterly confounding Potter was almost its own reward. Almost.

"There are worse things I can do to him than deliver an insult or two, Black, as you can see. Now do us both a favour, and leave."

Silence answered, which spoke volumes on his victory, but for once Severus was glad to have no witnesses to his triumph as it left him free to run to the loo and take care of the not-so-little problem tenting the front of his robe.

Severus set out the ingredients for Wednesday's sixth-year advanced Potions class. His hands no longer shook with exhaustion, and his vision remained sand-free, but the abundance of rest did nothing to cure the plague of students, and they streamed through the door, full of their typical inane chatter.

"--seen Harry lately? He looks terrible," Boot said, and Severus, about to take points, busied himself sorting beetle eyes instead.

"He seems more content than last term, just exhausted," Bones added.

"Nightmares, I reckon." Thomas brought up the rear of the gaggle. "Poor bugger wakes the whole dorm up every night screaming Sirius' name."

The jar of bubotuber pus flew off the counter, and this time, the culprit was Severus' elbow.